Log Date:
	1/23/00

Log Cast:
	Han Solo, Luke, Kathryn, Poguala, Leia, C-3PO and R2-D2 (emitted 
by Han)

Log Intro:
	At last, Chewbacca, Gabrielle, and Skeezix have located the missing
Han Solo on Nar Shaddaa -- and brought him back to Coruscant, where his 
anxious wife and brother-in-law have learned much to their dismay that the
reason for Han's many weeks out of contact have been the result of injuries
sustained in the attempt to rescue Gabrielle, injuries which deprived him of
his memory. Luke and Leia have hastened to greet the _Falcon_ as it landed,
and now, Chewbacca has gone off in search of a doctor to attend to his
honor-brother... and now, as Luke brings Dr. Kathryn Montavre aboard the
freighter, the Wookiee and the Princess have stepped off to discuss Han's
condition privately between themselves. With Luke and Kathryn comes Poguala,
a junior diplomat only recently grown acquainted with the former Rebel
heroes... but close enough that she too is concerned for the welfare of 
General Solo....

----------
Han_Solo(#1491POUA)
This tall, rangy man is quite battered of appearance, looking like he's been 
  through seven or eight kinds of hell. A recently healed scar just over his 
  left eye suggests he's suffered quite the crack to his forehead as of late, 
  and in addition, he is pale and haggard and carries himself rather stiffly 
  when he moves. His hair is a strange mix of shades of brown, lighter on the 
  ends and darkening closer in; that tumbled mop is in desperate need of a 
  trim. His eyes are strangely piebald as well, somehow intermingled in hue 
  between sky blue and a crystalline hazel. Somewhere under layers of grime 
  and exhaustion might be lurking ruggedly handsome features, but at the 
  moment it's a trifle hard to tell. He takes in everything around him with a 
  strangely confused stare, and speaks in a rough, rasping baritone voice.
He is currently clad in a non-descript dark brown shirt of a coarse weave, 
  held securely round his waist by a battered utility belt off which is slung 
  a blaster holster at his thigh. His trousers are dark green, tucked into 
  scuffed brown boots. Over the shirt he sports a loose jacket of slate green, 
  with a collar he wears turned up behind his neck, and a number of pockets. 
  All of his garments are in a fairly dirty state, though along his upper left 
  shoulder and the collar there are stains of something that might be old 
  blood.
                -=-=-=-=-=-=<<Carried Virtual Objects>>=-=-=-=-=-=-
=> DL-44 Heavy Blaster Pistol 
=> 890 Galactic Standard Credits 
=> Sabacc Deck 

With obvious reluctance, the Princess had left his company, asking to have a 
  private word with Chewbacca. Both the Wookiee and Leia had sworn up and down 
  that they would not leave him to himself for long, but then, the solitude 
  has stricken him as actually... useful. He who has been brought back from 
  Nar Shaddaa is taking the opportunity to wander about the _Millennium 
  Falcon_, finding a lot of it new and strange... and a lot of it assuringly 
  familiar. Rather like the jangled memories settling edgily into place into 
  his head. Han Solo, he tells himself, trying it out for size and fit. _I am 
  Han Solo, and this is my ship._

Luke has brought Kathryn on board the _Falcon_ after suggesting it to 
  Chewbacca, and he now leads her into the corridor of the ship. There he is 
  startled to find Han, who should still be in the bunk, if Luke were to have 
  a say. "Han," he says urgently, then looks over his shoulder. "I've brought 
  the doctor, Dr. Montavre. Have you met?"

Sure footed steps lead up the ramp of the _Falcon_ until Kathryn Montavre, in 
  full StarMed dress, is within the hatchway. Stepping further into the ship 
  she walks towards Luke and smiles at Han, extending her hand, "Its good to 
  see you again, General." she says warmly, somewhat aware of the General's 
  amnesic state. Though in fact, its her wish that he doesn't remember her too 
  quickly for it probably won't help her if any bad feelings of the past are 
  brought up while she's trying to work on him.

The sound of the hatch opening up makes Solo pivot around sharply, his hand 
  going for the blaster he's not currently wearing at his side -- and for an 
  instant, something feral flashes across his eyes, the look of an animal 
  who's spent a lot of its recent existence eluding bigger predators. At the 
  sight of Luke, however, the rangy Corellian visibly relaxes. But the hazel 
  gaze Solo turns on Kathryn is bemused, and that flash of wildness segues 
  into something almost awkward as he admits over the hand he offers in 
  return, "I, uh... will have to take your word on that, Doctor. Little 
  scatter-headed right now." His mouth twists into a self-directed smirk.

Poguala has arrived.
Poguala enters Main Ring Corridor (Starboard)

Some measure of concern crosses Luke's face at the reaction Han has to their 
  appearance, but it turns more to confusion as Han goes from wild and 
  defensive to almost shy and awkward in a matter of seconds. "It's okay, 
  Han," he says, glancing at Kathryn worriedly for direction.

Kathryn almost sighs with Solo's failure to recognize her, however she does 
  smile a little broader as she shakes his hand. Looking to Luke she gives him 
  a reassuring smile and a nod then shifts her gaze back to Solo, "So, 
  General," she says, "Where does it hurt?" she smiles and opens her medpac.

Poguala arrives, quietly, only the click of her boots announcing her arrival. 
  She has been briefed on the situation by Leia, no doubt, thus takes caution 
  when makig any attempt at a greeting. She must have heard the reaction to 
  one greeting as is, keeping silent, slipping into the ship just behind 
  Kathryn and Luke.

Just as he'd done with Kathryn, Solo flashes the second woman coming onto the 
  ship a strangely confused, intent stare, wrestling with his memory to try to 
  pull up some reference, any reference, to her identity. Finally, he blurts 
  roughly, "Uh... Attache, right?" Then the doctor distracts him anew with her 
  question, and Han's oddly lost gaze flicks momentarily towards Luke before 
  returning to the first woman. "I'm okay," he mutters, sounding purely 
  reflexive now, and rather palpably embarrassed.

Clearly, Han's condition is worse than Luke first anticipated, and he 
  automatically reaches out with his senses to try to get a better idea of 
  what is causing the condition. "This is Lady Dawntreader, the Special 
  Representative," he says in a calm voice, gesturing toward Poguala. "Why 
  don't we let the doctor examine you?"

Poguala is entirely calm about the uncertain greeting, smilig gently and 
  patiently in response. She murmurs towards Luke, "He is half-right. I think 
  it promising that he remembers me from the start of my career -- it is, 
  after all, a recent memory." She steps forward, elegant and unassuming as 
  always, offering Solo her hand. "It is well to see you again," she greets 
  him with her smooth tenor. "Please...call me Poguala. Or Pogs, if you like."

You whisper, "Han's condition... well, your Force senses find no immediately 
  obvious physical cause. But even as you reach out to touch him, something 
  comes across the Force to suggest a why, a reason. There is a glimmer of 
  something that might be recent memory, though it is more a memory of a state 
  of being than anything concrete like a vision or a sound or a place. He's 
  been hungry, has Han. Exhausted. Chased like a hunted beast through the 
  streets of the Smugglers' Moon, and now not entirely certain of the order 
  returning to his world." to Luke.

Rustling in her pac, Kathryn pulls out a rather docile-looking scanning 
  device. She smiles at Han and allows Luke to comfort the man before she 
  starts pointing devices at him, docile-looking or not. Tapping on the device 
  and tuning its settings, Kathryn waits.

Skittishness at medical devices -- well, _that's_ been a longstanding 
  tradition with this particular Corellian General. Solo makes a face at some 
  of the objects Kathryn begins to pull forth, before recovering enough 
  composure to take and shake Poguala's hand as well. "Pogs," he rumbles, in 
  tones of ever so slightly sheepish amusement, and maybe even relief. Perhaps 
  he remembers the nickname? Back to Kathryn, though, he adds gruffly, "You, 
  uh, want me to sit down or somethin' somewhere, doc?"

The doctor smiles, "Sit, stand, however you feel comfortable." she looks at 
  Han, "Unless of course I have to perform surgery," she says with a jesting 
  smile. She pulls out the scanning peripheral from the device in her hand and 
  begins to slowly sweep it over his body without touching.

Shrugging, Luke moves out of the doctor's way, and goes to stand closer to 
  Poguala, folding his arms over his chest as he watches Kathryn do her scans, 
  and something approaching a frown darkening his face. It's only the obvious 
  worry in his eyes when he looks at Han that gives away the source of his 
  quiet anxiety. He's careful not to look too closely at Poguala, either.

Poguala smiles warmly, allowing Solo to touch her hand, to gather the nickname 
  in his head. "Yes Pogs," she says very softly. She sidesteps to make certian 
  Kathryn has the room to work, then twists a touch to make certain Solo can 
  make eye contact with whomever he wishes in the room. She is content to stay 
  off to the side, taking care to gesture to each person as emphasis whilst 
  Kathryn works. "Master Luke was very worried about you, you must realize. I 
  fear you caused us all quite a fright. It is well and good that you have 
  returned, and largely intact. Did you requiresomething to drink? Eat? I 
  trust the hyperspace journey didnt' drain you -- I understand you are 
  exceedingly fond of space travel, flight in general, really."

Kathryn's device can report to her that Solo's physical state is about as good 
  as can be expected -- for a man who is bearing under his clothing signs of 
  several recent wounds, and who is suffering in general from a weeks-long 
  lack of anything resembling adequate food, water, and rest. Although he 
  doesn't actually shift from foot to foot as he's scanned, Han still rubs a 
  hand across one shoulder and then lifts that same hand up to his brow in a 
  clearly unconscious motion; that spot over his left eye, too, suggests a 
  severe blow to his head there. "Yeah," he murmurs absently to Poguala, 
  "I'm... a little hungry." Then he casts a glance around at the other three 
  people and abruptly half-grins, half-smirks. "And well, yeah. I _am_ the 
  best damned pilot in the galaxy." This last is delivered in a droll 'and I 
  thought I was the one with amnesia' tone.

Kathryn slips a datarod from the device and pulls out a small circular device 
  from her pac. Slipping the rod within the circular device and depressing a 
  red button, a hologram of the interior workings of a man fizzes into 
  existence, spinning slowly above Kathryn's hand. Tapping a few other keys, 
  the hologram moves in towards the man's shoulder and above, "We have a 
  somewhat healed concussion above the left brow ridge. Looks like its a week 
  or two old... We also have a few strained muscles and some scrapes which 
  have already been healed." she looks to Han, "Are you experiencing 
  headaches? Migraines?"

Suppressing a smile, Luke tries to appease himself with an assurance that Han 
  will be fine. He's been through worse, after all. He relaxes a little bit, 
  and glances up at Poguala next to him. "Some things never change," he says 
  wryly, keeping part of his attention alert to the report Kathryn gives on 
  Han's condition. The bump on the head would explain the memory problems -- 
  which pleases Luke much more than if it had been more Sith brain-scrambling.

Poguala glances at Luke, scratching behind her ear with delicate fingers. This 
  is a good tactic to keep her small smirk out of Solo's view -- Luke's 
  subsequent comment is met with a subtle nod of affirmation. When she folds 
  her hands in front of her, she asks teh Jedi master politely,"Do you know if 
  there are provisions on board? Or should I call for food to be brought in 
  for....." She hitches, not wishing to use a title... "...Han?" A gentle hand 
  is placed on Solo's shoulder then, and she asks, 'Have you something in 
  particular you would like to eat, pending the doctor's approval...?"

Solo nods with obvious reluctance at Kathryn's inquiry about headaches, 
  voicing nothing more than a husky "Yeah" in answer to the question. No 
  details, no complaints. That the man is admitting to pain at all might well 
  be interpreted as a sign of the state he's in. Poguala's hand upon his 
  shoulder makes him start ever so slightly, and then, for a fraction of an 
  instant, at least around the eyes, the man in his late thirties might be 
  mistaken for a starving boy. "Big bowl of nerf stew?" he asks hopefully. 
  "And a Corellian brandy?"

Kathryn eyes Solo for a moment, "Alright, headaches." she says and shuffles 
  through her pac, removing a small vial and a long metal stick. Jamming the 
  vial into the stick she pushes it lightly up against Solo's neck, "There, 
  that should help alleviate your headaches." she says. "Now..." she frowns 
  slightly at her hologram, now showing a red area on his left arm, "Are these 
  the same clothes you were... er... rescued in?"

"I'd bet money we've got the Corellian brandy on board," Luke chuckles to 
  Poguala, watching the hologram projected by the doctor's scanners. "I'm not 
  sure if the _Falcon_ has a big pot of nerf stew, though. We should send for 
  something. Is anyone else hungry?" He tries to keep his voice light and 
  unconcerned.

"Now hold on, doc, I don't need--" *Ssssht.* Too late. The vial delivers its 
  payload, and Han's surge of protest dies as quickly as it'd begun as he 
  realizes that he is a) still on his feet and b) not getting loopy over 
  what's just been shot into his system. He blinks, twice, and then his 
  haggard featurs subtly ease. "Mrm. Um. Thanks. Uh --" Yes, his clothes _are_ 
  rather fragrant, aren't they? Solo casts a brief bemused look down at 
  himself, but Luke's mention of brandy sound far more enticing right now than 
  throwing himself into the 'fresher. Shooting the younger man his best 
  winning smile, he suggests, "Wanna help me remember where I left my stash, 
  Junior?"

Poguala clears her throat likely, saying, "Excuse me....I will call the Palace 
  kitchens for nerf stew. I am certain there are a chefs available who know 
  its...subtler workings." She steps off, bowing at the waist to Han Solo, 
  offering, "A moment. Or a few, depending upon whether or not there is a 
  dinnder function this evening." She heads to the cocpit to use the Falcon's 
  communications systems to call for dinner.
Poguala heads off towards the cockpit.
Poguala has left.

Kathryn eyes Solo, "General, I'm going to have to remove your shirt. I think 
  it may be hiding injuries and its not very clean. I suggest, to ease what 
  pain it will cause, that you step into the shower and soak to loosen up the 
  blood that has coagulated. I will not take it off of you dry, it is too 
  dangerous." her tone is one of seriousness.

Almost awkward, Luke steps away. "Sure, I'll find it, Han. Lemme take a look 
  around." It's best not to have your best friend around when the doctor's 
  asking you to strip down, he wisely concurs. Thinking where the most likely 
  place would be for a Corellian brandy stash, he steps aft into the bunk room.

Wait a minute. Solo blinks after Luke, then calls after him, "Uh, cockpit, 
  Kid!" And he thrusts a thumb backwards over his shoulder -- then turns and 
  blinks at Kathryn, something like mirth abruptly flashing across his eyes 
  and curling his mouth into a crooked grin. "Dangerous to take my shirt off?" 
  he drawls, clearly amused. "First time I ever had a doc tell me it's 
  dangerous to _me_..." And with that, he wanders off aftward, squinting at 
  the ragged, bloodstained patches along his arm where a blaster bolt or two 
  must have singed the cloth.

You head aft around the ring into the bunk room.
Bunk Room(#5165RXntFN)
A cramped little nook sandwiched in among the engine room, maintenance areas, 
  and other sections of the aft half of the _Falcon_, this room sports enough 
  bunks to accommodate a small number of passengers. Along the back wall are a 
  bank of tiny lockers to stow personal gear, a catering facility, and a door 
  leading off into a refresher.
                  -=-=-=-=-=<<Visible exits>>=-=-=-=-=-
 <F>ore leads to Main Ring Corridor (Starboard).
Han_Solo enters Bunk Room

Kathryn steps in from the corridor.
Kathryn has arrived.
Kathryn enters Bunk Room

Kathryn enters the Bunk Room and purses her lips together. She takes out a 
  small bottle of antibacterial goo and a shower attachment. "So where's the 
  'fresher?" she asks, but spots it just after she says that, of course. 
  Without waiting for the answer she already knows, she heads into the 
  refresher and works on the shower.

"Over there," Solo answers, gesturing at the little refresher closet at the 
  back of the room. He himself has come across a storage locker, and seems 
  intent on rummaging into it to find out exactly what he has in the way of 
  better clothing on board. He then glances up, squinting after the woman, and 
  says with a deadpan expression, "If you're plannin' on joinin' me, doc, now 
  seems like a good time to point out I _am_ a married man..."

A clank, a few clicks and Kathryn comes out, "Its all set," she says dryly, 
  "And don't worry, General, I've seen enough half-naked human men in my life 
  to know there's not a real difference between them. Besides," she flashes a 
  ring, "I'm dedicated to my husband as you are your wife. Because of that, 
  you can take your own shirt off, I'll just spray you with the water."

Innuendo-laden though that last comment of his might have been, Solo's face 
  immediately clears and relaxes at Kathryn's tone. "Oh," he says, apparently 
  quite guilelessly and contentedly accepting her evidence of entirely 
  professional interest in the proceedings here. He straightens up from the 
  storage locker he'd just opened, stepping past the woman and into the little 
  shower nook, already undoing the fasteners on the ragged green shirt. "Okay, 
  hit me."

Kathryn steps into the bathroom, and, comes to the unfortunate realization 
  that she too will be sprayed by riccocheting water. "This is going to 
  sting," she says and lets loose a light barrage of warm water onto the man 
  before her, then ups the energy to medium, spraying it more on the heavily 
  damaged areas than anywhere else. After around two minutes of spraying the 
  General she flips off the shower hose and smiles, "Take off your shirt," she 
  says.

What's left of Han's green shirt is quickly rendered soaked -- but the only 
  mild wince that he puts forth as he laboriously pulls the scorched and 
  ragged sleeve up off his arm is evidence that this tactic has been useful. 
  Off comes the shirt, revealing the bumps and bruises and scrapes that the 
  medical scanner has already sensed, along with older scars. "Guess I did 
  need a shower," the Corellian mutters.

Kathryn smiles, "This won't sting at all," she says, not marvelling at the 
  man's endurance of pain because most Corellians are like that anyway. She 
  injects the shower head with a bit of that antibacterial goo and says, "1... 
  2... 3..." and off goes the spray, a sweet, pungent smell coming from it. 
  Aroma therapy one would imagine, or maybe this goo just smells good.

This man might be Han Solo, he might be possessed of a star-sized ego and 
  enough male stoicism to fill a small space cruiser, but even he is 
  vulnerable to the simple lulling pleasure of hot water sluicing cleanly 
  across his body. His head drops slightly forward, eyes going half-lidded; he 
  lifts up his right hand, then, to support himself against the shower wall. 
  Only when the spray hits the damaged flesh along his arm -- one days-old 
  blaster score, another one more recent -- does he let himself flinch.

After a few minutes, the spray ends, "There, you should be clean enough." she 
  whips a towel towards you, "Now dry off and I'll see if you need stitches or 
  not. Woo, fun." she grins and steps out of the refresher.

"Stitches?" Han groans. "What's wrong with a little synthflesh, little 
  bacta...?" He's okay, honest! But the towel is given him, and he settles for 
  a change of tactics. Stepping out after the doctor, he goes to the storage 
  locker long enough to grab a pair of blue trousers within and a pair of 
  boots; as long as he's stripping down, he tells himself with a grimace of 
  distaste at the state of the rest of his current clothing, might as well be 
  thorough about it. "Be right with ya, doc," he promises, shutting the 
  'fresher door behind him and a few minutes later emerging in the clean 
  trousers and boots and with the towel around his neck.

Kathryn smiles and holds a device in each hand. "Now I know you're probably 
  used to bacta tanks, but I prefer to use an old fashioned method coupled 
  with the modern method. What I do is stitch the wounds on your arms and then 
  keep you in the bacta tank for about five hours. Then you're good as new and 
  don't have to wait forever to have your skin move back together." she 
  smiles, "Or would you rather a day or two in a bacta tank?"

Five hours, truth be told, is a little longer than Han likes in a tank; what 
  he'd had in mind was more along the lines of just smearing a bit of bacta on 
  the places that hurt and calling himself medically attended. He swallows 
  hard, then visibly squares his shoulders and mutters, "Okay, sounds like a 
  plan."

Luke steps in from the corridor.
Luke has arrived.
Luke enters Bunk Room

Kathryn nods and walks over to you. She places a hand on your shoulder and 
  attaches a device over your wound and then the other device on your neck. 
  "Now... lets see..." she taps on the device on your neck, "Your arm is going 
  to feel a little numb." before she can let you get used to that idea she 
  presses a button and then taps on the device on your arm. It makes little 
  hydraulic noises.

Poguala steps in from the corridor.
Poguala has arrived.
Poguala enters Bunk Room

Shirtless, his hair slightly dampened and a towel around his neck, the 
  Corellian looks a little cleaner than he had a short time ago -- but 
  decidedly more nervous, as Kathryn attaches those devices of hers to him. He 
  can be seen to swallow a little, dark brows knitting in a consternation he 
  can't entirely conceal. A slightly unsteady breath escapes him as his left 
  arm does, indeed, go numb.

Poguala arrives with Luke, and a bowl of that nerf stew Solo so desperately 
  wanted. She does not blanch -- she has far too much manners, but she seems 
  rather content putting the pungent-smelling stew down. Her look to Kathryn 
  is awaiting of word or sign. "I brought the food --" She exhales, "Han 
  requested. Should it be left for later, given his state of affairs....?" She 
  gestures to the shirtless man, her eyes roving very briefly.

As Luke and Poguala reappear in the bunk doorway, it's clear that the young 
  Jedi's demeanor is more subdued now, though he still smiles with relief as 
  he realizes Han looks a hell of a lot better than he did before his bath. 
  Still, the situation is still tense, so he goes off to the side to place the 
  recovered bottle of brandy and the glasses on a side table next to where the 
  Representative has placed the bowl of nerf stew.

With a few clicks the devices on Han are removed. Kathryn smiles at Poguala, 
  "Oh, no, he can eat now. Its probably best before I put him a vat of bacta." 
  she looks to Han and says, "The numbness in your arm should be expired in 
  about five minutes. I'd also ask you not to get drunk before I put you in 
  the bacta, also." she nods to the brandy with a smile. "Otherwise, dig in." 
  she states, placing her devices back into their respective positions in her 
  medpac.

Awww, trust a doctor to take all the _fun_ out of enjoying a brandy. Han 
  shoots the bottle a longing look that suggests that as far as he's 
  concerned, he'd be just as happy submerged for five hours in that instead of 
  a bacta tank. But he goes for the stew first, with vigor and speed, and he 
  rasps towards Poguala and Luke, "Thanks, I'm starved..." And now that the 
  fragrance of the stew is hitting him, he falls on the food with only barely 
  more decorum than that possessed by the smaller varieties of rancors. 
  Clearly, it's been a while since this man's had a decent meal.

Poguala keeps her hands folded in front of her, watching the room in general, 
  stepping a few paces back from han Solo and his food. The fact that he 
  doesn't even bother to put on clothes is apparently not a bother to her, in 
  fact, she seems to smirk softly at the idea. Irreverence has its place. She 
  speaks over the hunched Solo to Luke. "Perhaps I should have ordered some 
  other sort of drink? Corellian brandy, even at its finest vintage, does not 
  assist the dehydrated..."

Luke spreads his hands wide. "If you can get him to drink water, I'm sure 
  we've got plenty of that around. Try convincing -him.-" He chuckles, also 
  standing out of Han's way as he dives into the food, and stands with his 
  arms folded over his chest.

What, trousers and boots and a damp towel do not adequate clothing make? 
  Though yes, truth be told, Han has currently forgotten his shirtless state 
  and the way assorted signs of batterings along his lean frame are therefore 
  open to view, along with the older scars he's sustained through the course 
  of his rather colorful career. Even under the best of conditions Solo is a 
  man whose pleasures in life are very simple: good food, good brandy, a fast 
  ship, a blaster and something to shoot it at, his friends at his side, and 
  his wife in his arms. Right now the hot, filling stew, rich with Corellian 
  spices, is so simple and profound a pleasure that the General for several 
  moments is entirely raptly caught up in the activity of eating, undisguised 
  and almost childlike delight lightening his eyes... until he shoots out a 
  hand to claim the brandy bottle. "I ain't gonna get drunk," he vows between 
  swallows, "at least _before_ I go into the tank." We'll discuss the chances 
  of getting drunk _after_ later.

Poguala is perfectly demure when she inquires of Solo, "Do you have any 
  concern of catching a draft?" She is on the other side of the bunk room now, 
  rifling elegantly through the closets near the bunks. "Perhaps it makes 
  little difference since you will be tanked soon." The word 'tanked', is said 
  rather ambiguously, the command of Basic Poguala has is impressive for the 
  conveying of multiple meanings. She clears her throat, continuing her Quest 
  for a Shirt, and waits....for something, from the hover in her step and in 
  her manner.

The starved Corellian's best friend can't help but laugh, and he slides onto 
  one of the chairs at the table, leaning back casually as he crosses one 
  booted leg over the other. Luke's content to let Han get his fill of the 
  nerf stew, and to watch Poguala as she searches the closets and cabinets for 
  a shirt, idly wondering what she is anticipating.

With a self-assuring click, Kathryn's medpac is back together. Pushing the 
  slide-out tray of the medpac back into its place she stands up with a smile. 
  Noting her damp clothing from riccocheting water spray she decides to enter 
  the refresher with a, "I'll be right out."

Solo has over the years put down alcoholic beverages strong enough to make his 
  entire body go numb, and so the comparative lack of feeling in his left arm 
  is no hindrance to the steady campaign he's waging against the stew and the 
  golden liquid in the bottle. Nodding absently at Kathryn, he then blinks at 
  Poguala, not entirely grasping her meaning until he glances down at himself. 
  Oh. Then, entirely straightfacedly, he notes, "I'd think I'm a little 
  _overdressed_ for the bacta tank, myself."

"You are not in the bacta tank," Poguala answers evenly, meeting the 
  Corellian's steadfast insistence with a more genteel one of her own. She 
  approaches with the plainest, non-military white shirt she can find, and 
  offers it by way of hanging it on the back of Solo's chair. "Bacta does not 
  eradicate viruses or bacteria. It is only prudent to prevent draft, lest 
  your time in the tanks be in vain against a subtler ravage." How the Lady 
  Dawntreader manages to sound informal while speaking in Senate Basic is 
  anyone's guess: it is her amiliar presence that probably helps her. She 
  steps back, folds her arms, and waits.

Skywalker glances at Han, at Poguala, and then suppresses a grin by physically 
  covering his mouth with his hand and glancing away.

The 'fresher door opens and Kathryn walks out, her dampened uniform dry and 
  her face and hands washed. Fluffing her hair she walks over to a bed and 
  sits on it, rearranging equipment on her suit this time instead of the 
  medpac. Perhaps a stickler for everything in arms reach, even if a vial of 
  sedative is at your ankle instead of on your shoulder where your extra bone 
  stabilizer is. One would suspect that others would appreciate having their 
  bone fixer closer than the stuff that gets them doped up.

"Personally, Kid," Solo asides to the younger man, "I smell Leia tryin' to 
  keep anybody from seein' me shirtless. Presented with one of his own white 
  shirts, he offers Poguala a large boyish smile in exchange, but he also does 
  set down his bowl and take and put on the garment in question. As he does so 
  he calls over to Kathryn, "So, doc, I assume I better come along quietly so 
  you can dunk me under?"

Kathryn shrugs with a grin, "Quiet would keep you away from my dart gun, but 
  its your decision of course." she stands up and slides the medpac into a 
  deep thigh pocket then makes her way over to Han, allowing him to ready 
  himself before she flings him into a two meter tall cylinder filled with 
  yellowish goo.

Again Luke chuckles. "I didn't know Leia was the jealous type," he says 
  teasingly to the Corellian. "But Poguala is right, you probably shouldn't 
  walk through the streets of Coruscant where everyone who passes can see your 
  injuries. Doesn't sound too sanitary, either." He drums his fingers against 
  his arm, watching Kathryn as she rises to lead Han to his rendeszvous with a 
  bacta tank.

Tugging the shirt down into place -- well, if 'in place' can be defined as 
  'more or less covering his upper body', as he doesn't bother to actually 
  tuck the shirt _in_ -- Solo grimaces at Luke and grumbles, "Make it sound 
  like I'm wanderin' around in a hoverchair or somethin', why doncha?" But 
  there's no real annoyance in his voice, and he occupies himself for a minute 
  or two finishing off the stew. The brandy gets a little more careful 
  attention, actually simply drunk rather than inhaled, and the Corellian 
  pauses and closes his eyes while waiting for the stuff to hit his system. 
  "Gimme a minute," he requests huskily, "then I'll come along quiet-like so 
  we can get this overwith. I can't afford to play invalid, I gotta get back 
  on duty."

Kathryn nods quietly, and stands there, waiting for Solo.

Duty. On duty. Something about the words seem to affect Poguala, as though 
  they ring oddly. She lifts her hand to her cheek, regarding it carefully. 
  She doesn't speak, only moves to find a chair in the corner, sitting in it 
  primly. A glance to Kathryn reminds her of a question, and she raises her 
  finger. "Will this bacta bath require a sedative?"

Kathryn nods quietly, and stands there, waiting for Solo. She looks to 
  Poguala, "No, it shouldn't. Bacta is somewhat of a sedative in of itself, I 
  can put him to sleep before however, should he want. It would be no 
  trouble." she says.

The Jedi is quiet as well, though he does regard Poguala with some curiosity 
  due to the expression on her face. As Kathryn explains the procedure, he 
  glances over at Han, quietly remembering the vision he had had of his 
  friend's suffering.

A hint of Solo's earlier awkward discomfort begins to return, levity draining 
  out of his hazel eyes and leaving instead a dark, uncertain wariness. "I.. 
  yeah, I... think it'd be best to put me to sleep," he mutters, staring 
  towards the others, but without really seeming to see them.

Poguala's face is entirely made up of sympathy. Still, she holds her ground, 
  saying nothing....cataloging reactions, concerns, and changes in mood. The 
  tension is palpable, but she is, as always a picture of calm and serenity, 
  an outward image from which the most insecure can draw strength. She asks: 
  "Are you ready to have us leave, Han?"

[Soon enough, Han has been escorted to a nearby NR medical facility... and 
 prepped to go into the bacta tank. Leia comes and rejoins her brother and
 Poguala, and all three of them watch as the injured Corellian succumbs to 
 the effects of the sedative he's been given....]

With a soft *gloop* sound the last of the bacta fluid fills up the tank -- and 
  Han's lean frame, stripped down to a form-fitting pair of shorts, gives one 
  last langurous twitch before the sedative in his system lulls him off to 
  deep, formless sleep. With the breather over his face all that can be seen 
  of his features are his closed eyes and the dark brows over them, utterly 
  relaxed for the first time since the medic, the diplomat, and the Jedi had 
  come to see him on the _Falcon_. The bacta fluid buoys him up, warm and 
  thick and opalescent, blurring the details of the various inconsequential 
  injuries he's sustained over the last several weeks even as it begins to go 
  to work on them.
And thus... Han sleeps.

The medical chamber is quiet, but for the sounds typical to such a place. The 
  hum of electrical medical equipment, the beeping of monitors and scanners, 
  the dull, metallic voices of the medical droids. Luke Skywalker stands in 
  the observation chamber of the bacta ward, watching where Han Solo is being 
  submerged into the bacta vat. He stands quiet and detached, his arms folded 
  over his chest, leaning against the side of the transparisteel barrier.

Poguala stands in the darkened medchamber, quiet, reserved, thoughtful. She is 
  not terribly close to Luke: just enough to see what transpires with the 
  injured Solo. Her look to him is subtle, wondering, understanding of the 
  Jedi Master's want of quiet without intruding upon his personal space. A 
  hand reaches up to consider a loose lock of her richly-dark hair.

Having been burdened with first convincing the reluctant hero on the journey 
  here that yes he should allow this and no there really wasn't much choice 
  for him through all his myriad protests that would emit from Solo's mouth on 
  occassion, Leia is relieved now to see him peaceful in the vat. Yet her 
  posture is that of tension and worry, though less than she had been 
  witnessed to bear over the last several weeks. She stands before the tank, 
  dark eyes focused unwavering on her husband, distant from the others. Her 
  arms are folded and she holds nervously her right thumbnail between her 
  teeth. After a long sigh, drops her pose and looks to either side, taking in 
  Luke, then Poguala with question in her eyes. "Did the Doctor say how long 
  he'd need to be in there?" she asks, her question tossed to either of them 
  as she returns her gaze to Han's floating form.

Shaken from his thoughts, Luke blinks, glancing over at Leia, and he visibly 
  softens his expression as his gaze rests on her. "Five hours, I believe," he 
  tells her. "But he's fine. Nothing to worry about."

The smooth rolling noise of an astromech droid in motion, punctuated by the 
  tramp of a protocol droid's metallic feet, is the herald of the approach of 
  C-3PO and R2-D2. "Oh dear oh dear oh dear oh dear," the taller of the pair 
  of droids can be heard to be moaning even as the chamber door slides open to 
  admit him and his pint-sized companion, "General Solo _does_ have the most 
  exasperating habit of rendering himself only partially functional on a 
  regular basis, and I'm _quite_ sure he will _insist_ upon resuming his 
  duties before he is--oh my!" As Threepio scans the room and realizes that 
  the humans are present, he cuts himself off and executes the best bow a 
  protocol droid can manage. "A thousand pardons for our interruption, Master 
  Luke, Mistress Leia, Representative Dawntreader, but Artoo and I simply 
  _had_ to come and check up on the General--" A bright, hopeful whistle from 
  the astromech backs him up.

Poguala adds to Luke's commentary by murmuring, "His injuries were 
  superficial, Leia." The Inner Councilor's name does not quite roll off the 
  tongue as of yet, Poguala still being unaccustomed to addressing her 
  informally. At least now, she tries. Her own reverie is interrupted, that 
  seems to be well and good for her, and her mood changes, to a gentle smile, 
  and a touch to Leia's shoulders as she comes to her side. "His memory is also 
  improving. His appetite, for your personal information, seems to be entirely 
  unaffected."

Luke's reminder of the short time needed for healing does comfort the 
  Princess. The entrance of the droids draws Leia's attention and she turns to 
  them with an affectionate smile, looking first at the golden protocol model. 
  "No need to apologize, Threepio." She now turns her smile to R2D2. "I'm sure 
  General Solo would be glad of your concern." But Poguala's words draw back 
  to the heart of her concern. "I hope so. It's his memory that worries me." 
  She moves now, gliding across the med-bay floor towards her brother, the 
  Jedi Master. "Do you think it could be more than just a bump on his stubborn 
  head?" she asks, mixing concern with gentle humor as she knows all around 
  her are feeling the same strain as she.

A sigh and a chuckle are Luke's response to the droids' entrance, and he waves 
  a hand towards them, welcoming them over. "It's all right, Threepio. Han 
  will be fine." He watches Poguala and Leia, tilting his head as the latter 
  approaches him. He places a hand on her shoulder, his smile is gentle and 
  assuring. "I sensed nothing more sinister than that," he assures her.

Poguala folds her hands in front of her, polite as always. She takes the 
  moment between Luke and leia to glance at the bacta tank, averting her gaze 
  out of respect for things from which she should keep her distance. She 
  speaks to the droids, "Do you think that any complications may arise when 
  the General's memory is to be repaired?"

Artoo beeps plaintively, sounding distinctly startled, and Threepio baps him 
  lightly on the top of his domed head. "No, you silly tin can, they cannot 
  restore his memory from a backup! It is not so simple for a _human_." The 
  protocol droid's servos whirr softly as he turns to try to keep Poguala, 
  Luke, and Leia all within polite visual range, and he goes on to the first 
  of the three, "Although I am unqualified to issue an official medical 
  opinion, Representative, my familiarity with General Solo _does_ lend me 
  enough evidence to opine that the complications which must be expected will 
  be based on his own stubborn insistence on attempting to return to full 
  functionality before he is ready. I would advise," he concludes loftily, 
  "that you seriously consider keeping him sedated."

Leia's relief is evident at Luke's reassurance. She nods slightly, grateful 
  for his words. Weary, she parts from him, but not without first brushing his 
  sleeve with one hand, needing contact for the moment. Her walk away leads 
  her to a small bench that faces the tank. Sitting, her posture straight and 
  hands folded in her lap, she closes her eyes, trying desperately to remember 
  a prayer or a meditation. Regrettably, it's those things she never leaves 
  room for in her memory amongst all else she must occupy her intellect with, 
  and her spirit feels a bit bereft for it. The councilor's head bows. Hearing 
  C3PO's conclusion, her voice emits a stern disapproval of that idea. "Not on 
  your powercells, Threepio. I want him cognizant and active as soon as he's 
  ready. A human brain needs to function in order for the synapses to rebuild 
  the missing pathways. No bacta nor sleep will do that for him."

Poguala listens to Threepio, the only person in the galaxy who appreciates 
  some of his caution, as well as his noblesse in hi ssarcasm. She quirks a 
  small smile at his antics, then explains to him in no uncertain terms. "I am 
  certain you would wish to remain active were your snyapses assaulted in such 
  a manner....perhaps some empathy towards the General is in order...?" Her 
  smile is brilliant, soft, gentle, and undecidedly coy. The break from her 
  far too serious thoughtfulness is a welcome change, and as if she were 
  intrested in affirmation, she smiles to Leia and Luke in turn. "Right?"

The young Jedi watches Leia walk away, and for a moment it seems as if he will 
  also sink back into moodiness. But Poguala's words shake him out of that, 
  and he smiles back at her, the sense of it almost apologetic. "You're right, 
  Pogs," he says tenderly.

Leia echoes her brothers "Right!" but more forcefully. Her timing almost 
  seeming practiced to gain unison with Luke's answer. Done with that issue, 
  she takes another deep breath and makes to return to her meditative state, 
  once again closing her eyes and searching her soul for the hope she needs so 
  desperately now.

Poguala's face hollows. Reacting to something, something in the air, something 
  tingling about her, she lifts a self-effacing hand. "I should not interfere 
  in this." It is an excuse she has used so many times before....and so many 
  times, she finds herself right where she is right now. Her hand lowers, to 
  meets its sister in front of her, they giving her poise, offering her 
  comfort, as she phsyically steps back as her mind tries to retreat from the 
  sympathy that seems to automatically well in her when Luke Skywalker and 
  Leia Organa Solo are around. Her demure smile is shielded as she averts her 
  gaze, apologetic and retiring.

[And as the gathered humans and droids wait for Han to come out of the bacta,
 end log.]